Mass Change: Fons Et Origo
by bouncyjellies
Summary: Ghosts are a symbol of power and might for a reason- they're hyper-lethal. Hurled into a new world with a second chance in life, Lt. Alex Miller, a conscripted former Ghost, tries to fit in. But war is on the horizon, and Miller may just tip the odds into Shepard's favor. First though, he needs to survive Mindoir. Slight AU, contains Starcraft elements. Rated M just in case.
1. Prologue

One Year Ago

Location: Port Victory, Heinland III

Three cloaked commandoes, the feared Ghosts of the Terran Dominion, darted past as stall, leaving being a mere shimmer to even indicate that they were ever there. Two of them were clearly male, the last one female.

"_All teams, this is Hades, Operation: Shadow Day is a go, I repeat, Operation: Shadow Day is a go," crackled the authoritative voice of Major Mikhail Kamarov._

The point-man, one of the males, moved forward cautiously, before spotting something that he didn't like.

"_Operational objective is to eliminate activist Roan Ives, and to capture all intelligence regarding separatist group Freedom Now," the Major continued the laydown of the plan. _

"_R.O.E, sir?" asked Lieutenant Jorge 'Scion' Hall, cocking his weapon._

"_Everyone down there is fair game, LT," the Major grunted back. "Everyone. Command wants no witnesses here, it's a full damn sweep."_

Sighing loudly, the lead Ghost whispered into his comm. "Civvies, three of them. Looks like a family."

The Major's voice came onto the comm. again. "Eliminate."

"Understood," the Ghost acknowledged, without hesitation, bringing his silenced C-22 Canister Rifle to bear on the family of three. Then he fired.

Three soft thumps filled the air for a brief moment, before the three targeted people dropped dead, holes in their heads.

"Clear," the Ghost briskly reported, not giving the dead anything but a cursory brief glance. The two other Ghosts didn't even give the dead a single thought, moving forward with mechanical precision.

"_Ives has a wife and son…command wants to send a message to the rebels," the Major thundered to the assembled men and women. "Kill them."_

The three Ghosts scanned their surroundings intently, one eye keeping watch on the motion tracker while they did so. The mini-map on the top-left of their Heads-Up Display (HUD) displayed the various teams around the area. In the distance, multiple squads of Ghosts took their positions, forming a mobile perimeter around the location of Roan Ives. The three were the designated entry team. Other blips, yellow in color, showed the various other inhabitants of the area, which were blinking out fast. If Command wanted no witnesses, no survivors, then the Ghosts would carry out their will.

Lieutenant Alexander 'Sable' Miller took a quick glance at the status bars of Black Team, which he led. Warrant Officer Henrique 'Henry' Vasquez's status lights were fully green, as was Warrant Officer Anna 'Dagger' Chang's.

He then continued on, taking note of the disappearance of many yellow blips from the radar. He should have, and would have been guilty at the very least had he been a regular human. But he wasn't one. Everything from his bones, to muscles and brains had been altered to create the perfect soldier, the Ghosts. His psyche and psionic powers were both nearly unmatched, being one of the few Class 10s on the Psi Index. Reaction speeds and reflexes were far above the realms of human possibility.

Of course, that meant that for the moment he was merely a robot, mechanical and lifeless in his movements. A slave in his own right, Miller was the result of the Ghost Corp's forceful child conscription program.

The leaders of the Dominion and its military would have wanted him to stay this way.

But as it was, fate would not have it. And fate…

Fate, well, she was a fickle bitch.

* * *

Kevin Royce took a deep breath in anticipation on what he was about to do. The camera was set, already streaming a feed to the secretly and well-hidden communications relays that had been set up by the Freedom Now Movement prior to the start of their plans.

His brother, his entire family, his friends, all of them had been killed during the Dominion's raid on Agria. His brother and father had been shot to 'set and example for the fringe colonial scum' while his sisters and mother had been raped repeatedly by Dominion marines.

In the end, both died after a long time in captivity.

Royce hated the Dominion, and he hated it with a goddamn passion. He hated its emperor, and he hated the _motherfucking_ lackeys that claimed that the Dominion was for the better.

He also had nothing to lose. And a person who had nothing to lose…were the most dangerous kinds.

The small prefab structure, home to activist Roan Ives, was quickly and silently surrounded by the highly trained and augmented Ghosts, after which Black Team stacked up by the entrance. Swiftly placing a cord of breaching explosives on the hinges of the doors, while waiting for the other teams to confirm that they had every nook and cranny of the house covered, WO Chang began counting down, allowing herself and other members of the team to get to a relatively safe distance before triggering the charge.

The explosion's loud noise was blocked out by the Hostile Environment Suit's audio filters, allowing the three Ghosts to immediately dash in and, were there any, begin eliminating hostiles with extreme prejudice.

Instead, they found the entry point's room to be empty. Quickly sweeping through the other rooms, they ended up stacking up on the last door, the only place where anyone could be at the prefab. This time, Miller didn't bother using explosives, instead kicking down the door and rushing in-

Royce was grinning from ear to ear. The feed of the Dominion's precious Ghosts gunning down the very citizens they were supposed to be protecting had already been streamed to the recording center, where a reel was being prepared. All that was left to do was the final phase of the operation.

Die fighting.

His task here was essentially to watch over the gear and make sure nothing unfortunate happened. That was already done.

In his right hand was a custom-made pistol, crafted by a gunsmith who had once been part of the Dominion's mad science departments. It fired something called warp munitions, which Royce could not care less about. It could kill, and that was the end of it.

The door burst down, and a Ghost entered, his C-22 Canister Rifle being brought to bear within milliseconds of the door dropping. Royce, though, had his gun up already, due to the fact that he knew they were about to enter. He fired, pulling the trigger of the custom pistol.

Instead of a slug though, a small circular object, spherical in shape and glowing blue, flew out of the barrel, before zeroing onto the Ghost.

Just as it was about to hit, the object exploded into a vibrant blue 'blanket,' which covered the Ghost. Then it detonated, with the force of a small nuke.

The shockwave tore apart the two Ghosts behind the targeted one, along with Royce, who gave a mad grin before the wave turned his insides into jelly. Then the flames and fire, blue instead of red, expanded at a pace so fast that it nearly mirrored that of the shockwave.

To the average person, it would have been horrifying and terrible…but to a man who had nothing to lose, and had hurt his enemy, it was glorious.

When the spherical thing exited the barrel of the strange pistol, Miller knew he was screwed. He wasn't afraid, strangely. He was…content? Why would he be content to die?

A brief flash of confused puzzlement coursed through him, before the sphere exploded into a blanket that seemed to snake around him, wrapping around him tightly.

Then the blanket-like thing exploded, sending a ear-shattering shockwave proceeded by an awe-inspiring amount of fiery, flaming death.

Miller, being at ground zero for the explosion, was labeled KIA.

Nothing remained of him, not even ash.

* * *

Major Mikhail Kamarov growled in anger as the plume of smoke continued to rise. The op was a major fuck-up, and he was sure that command would want his head.

Three Ghosts, two of them Class 8s and one Class 10, had been confirmed KIA. Ten more were in critical condition, and would most likely be dead by the end of the day. Another eight were in varying states of injury. In short, only three teams were left unscathed, nine Ghosts at 100% operational capacity.

If he wasn't going to be shot, or hung by command for this, then his career in the military would be dead. In short, he was screwed. Slamming his hand onto the table again, the Major growled and glared at the screen.

A flash of lights on the comm. device then informed him that someone was calling. Answering the comm., the Major growled out a quick 'what.'

"Major Kamarov," the cold and calculative voice that could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest men spoke on the other end of the line. Director Fujita of the Dominion's Military Intelligence Directorate was not a man that you could cross…nor should you. Not one man survived it, and even the Emperor and royal family tried their very best to stay on good terms with him.

Kamarov gulped, his throat going dry. After a failed op, getting a call from the Director of Military Intelligence did not bode well. "Director, sir?" he managed to croak out.

"Tell me, Major…you are the man in charge of Operation: Shadow Day, are you not?" the ice-cold voice questioned politely. It was soft-spoken, and gave out a tangible and clear vibe of extreme danger.

"…yes, sir," answered Kamarov, sweating profusely now.

"Do you have a television, or terminal near you?" the strange question baffled Kamarov, and had this been another regular man the Major most likely would have told them to stop bothering him with useless prompts. But no sane man did that to the Director of Military Intelligence. Doing so had proven…unfortunate to people foolish enough to had done so in the past.

"I do, sir," Kamarov replied hesitantly, not sure on where this was going.

"Excellent, Major. Now, switch to channel 14, Koprulu News Net…or really, any news channel other than UNN," the director ordered.

Kamarov quickly did as he was told, before his jaw dropped, and he began stuttering.

A video feed of clearly identifiable Ghosts began firing on helpless civilians, with the Major's orders- his own words- being played over and over again. "Command wants no witnesses here, it's a full damn sweep."

"By the idiotic stuttering I hear on the other end of this line, I assume then that you have seen what is being shown now?" the grating, stone-hard voice of Director Fujita now began booming on the comm.

No coherent words were formed by Kamarov…he just didn't have the ability to. Fear began gripping him…failure was bad enough…but this? This was the possible catalyst to a fucking rebellion!

"You imbecile!" roared Fujita angrily from the other end of the line. "You know what this means, you idiotic grunt? This…cockup…of yours, can possibly start a bloody rebellion!"

That fear gripping Kamarov just grabbed at his heart with a vengeance.

"How such a retarded man, dumb enough to announce orders designated Black-1 over an open, lightly encrypted comm. line could rise to a rank of Major is beyond me," the director continued, his furiousness apparent.

"I…I take full responsibility for this, Director," Kamarov finally spoke, his voice shaky.

"Good…good," Fujita seemed…contemplative? "Major Mikhail Kamarov, under the orders of Emperor Mengsk, and under Directive Six-Charlie-Delta, I, Director Lars Fujita of the Dominion Military Intelligence am charging you guilty with acts of terrorism, murder, destruction of property and treason."

'Oh shit, oh shit,' were the prevalent thoughts in Kamarov's mind at this point.

"No trial is required under Directive Six-Charlie-Delta, and as such, I am sentencing you to death."

The line then ended, and Kamarov turned around, his hairs on his back suddenly screaming 'DANGER!'

A surprised grunt was all he could give out before a dagger slid into his neck, slitting his throat. The Ghost who assassinated him deactivated her cloak, the tight fitting Hostile Environment Suit showing her figure, which left nothing to imagination. The blonde hair was tied up and in a ponytail.

"Director, it's Nova. Target down."

* * *

After Action Report

Operation Shadow Day

Status: Failure

Relevant Units: 2nd Platoon, 1st Ghost Regiment

Status of Units: Thirteen KIA, Eight WIA

Report Filed By: Captain Ramon Chavez (Acting CO in replacement for Major Kamarov)

Operation Shadow Day was a massive failure, leading to the deaths of thirteen Ghosts, one of which was a Class 10 Psi. Three other Ghosts were Class 9s, and the rest were either Class 7s or 8s. The Class 10 was Lieutenant Alexander Miller, one of the initial candidates for the Mars Program, which had the aim of creating super soldiers.

Under the orders of Major Kamarov, then the Commanding Officer of the force, 2nd Platoon was ordered to perform a clean sweep through the target zone, leaving behind no survivors. This was done successfully, resulting in the deaths of 138 of the inhabitants of the area.

Black Team, led by Lt. Miller, was ordered to be the entry team for eliminating activist Roan Ives. Breach and Clear procedures were carried out correctly, as was the sweep of the building. Upon encountering the only live person in the house, Lt. Miller was hit by a blue sphere that formed into an energy 'blanket' like object, which promptly exploded. We have not recovered the remains of Lt. Miller, only the incomplete remains of Warrant Officer Anna Chang and Warrant Officer Henrique Vasquez. The remains of the shooter are likewise incomplete, though DNA checks had shown it to be that of Kevin Royce, an anti-Dominion extremist from Agria.

Traces of terrazine have been found onsite. The weapon fired has been identified as the Mk.7 Warp Antipersonnel Launcher, a discontinued line of experimental gear developed by Dominion R&D. It is unknown how a rebel came into possession of such advanced weaponry.

The resulting explosion caused the immediate deaths of WO Chang and Vasquez, with the injuries of ten other Ghosts.

Casualty List:

Lt. Alexander Miller, Black Team (KIA), Class 10

WO Anna Change, Black Team (KIA), Class 8

WO Henrique Vasquez (KIA), Class 8

CWO Ines Collins, Indigo Team (KIA), Class 9

SSgt. Fiona Leong, Indigo Team (KIA), Class 7

Sgt. Samuel Heller, Indigo Team (KIA), Class 8

Lt. Keith Robinson, Violet Team (KIA), Class 9

Cpl. Ari Chaska, Violet Team (KIA), Class 7

CWO Gregory Olson, Red Team (KIA), Class 8

Pfc. Edwin Finnigan, Red Team (KIA), Class 7

Pvt. Diana Riverson, Red Team (KIA), Class 7

Lt. Wayne Dawson, Orange Team (KIA), Class 9

Sgt. Olaf Marcusson, Orange Team (KIA), Class 8

Sgt. Ellen Danson, Violet Team (WIA), Class 7

WO Terrence McBridge, Orange Team (WIA), Class 8

CWO Niel Caston, Brown Team (WIA), Class 8

WO Christine Postiga, Brown Team (WIA), Class 7

Cpl. Gina Lockler, Brown Team (WIA), Class 7

CWO Hans MacLarson, Cyan Team (WIA), Class 8

Sgt. Kimberly Volk, Cyan Team (WIA), Class 7

Pvt. Frank Allen, Cyan Team (WIA), Class 7

(End Report)

* * *

Present Date  
February 3, 2170  
Mindoir

I shot up from my king-size bed, jolting from the shock of the nightmare once more. Panting like a person who had a marathon (which, coincidentally, due to my augmentations would not even cause me to break a sweat, but the saying stands), I swung my feet off the bed, rubbing my forehead with the back of my hand.

It's been a year since Operation: Shadow Day. A year since that fuckup that caused the deaths of over a hundred innocents. Innocents slaughtered just because the members of High Command didn't want witnesses.

Witnesses, who may or may not have seen us. People who were at the wrong place at the wrong time, who were just plainly unlucky to be there.

The worst part?

That wasn't the worst thing I had done…no, it was one of the less bloody ones. And if that doesn't tell you much, then nothing could.

The bedside lamp is already on, having been set to do so after detecting me awaking. The light illuminated the pistol I had built on my own, reminiscent of the Desert Eagle from Earth's 21st Century. Beside it was a vibrating mono-molecular blade, a rarity here, though to be exact the blade was technically not from here. A holographic dog-tag was beside the blade, with the identification of Lieutenant Alexander Miller, Dominion Ghost Corps, 1st Ghost Regiment, 2nd Platoon, Black Team. Class 10 Psi, with a picture of a black-haired man-no, teenager, really- with, if I should say, average looks. A few scars here and there, but that's to be expected if you've been killing for years. The age identifier was the kicker. 15. Now, it'd have been 16…

I wrapped my hands around the gun, then lifting it up. Checking to see if there were any rounds- I never did like the mass accelerators here- I placed it below my jaw.

I switched off the safety, my fingers inching towards the trigger.

One pull.

One pull, just one to end this nightmare of a life.

One pull.

I goaded myself to it, my finger twitching, as if it did not want to pull the trigger, but yet, at the same time, it did.

A sharp intake of air, and I made my decision.

The entire town heard the loud bang, causing the inhabitants, both children and adults, to stare at the origin of the sound, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Shock coursed through them, the adults at least.

The children were curious, unsure of what the sound meant. The adults…they began being terrified, pulling the kids away from the originating point.

* * *

AN: Well, here's the first chapter of Mass Change: Origin. Enjoy (if applicable), and review (for comments, suggestions, the like).


	2. It Begins

February 3, 2170

Alliance Outpost, Mindoir

Mindoir. A small, practically worthless colony (in the unsaid opinions of the heads of the Systems Alliance) that had a population of around three hundred (not even enough for a spot on the Alliance Parliament), with minimal defenses (the so-called base ten minutes south of the colony proper was barely able to pass as an outpost with fifty defenders, laughable in the event of a half-determined attack) and not much to do there. Tourism was out, since Mindoir didn't have the glitz and glamor that Elysium or Earth had, and the natural sights there were…mundane, at the very best.

When he first received his orders to be stationed in this backwater pissing hole (unlike the big cheeses on Arcturus and Earth, marines weren't very politically correct), Corporal Andrew Peres was livid and pissed. As far as he knew, he had not pissed off anyone important, so a vengeful senior officer didn't seem like the reason he was there. On the other hand, his record, while not immaculate, had not led to his blacklisting, so it could not be because of his service record. In the end, it was all down to shitty luck…or so he had thought.

Mindoir was not all that bad, really. It was idyllic, quiet and peaceful…not on the Terminus' borders, but not that far from the frontier either. Batarian pirates and slavers tended to prowl the border regions, and since Mindoir was both too small to matter and not even on in the identified hot-zones, the brass at Arcturus did not bother with stationing any ships, or a large ground-based contingent. A patrol of frigates and corvettes would come once in a while, but other than that raiding Mindoir would have been like stealing candy from a freaking baby.

Peres didn't mind this, as the entire garrison had come to the conclusion that raids on Mindoir would have been a waste of money anyway. Admittedly, they had gone complacent, but it was rather hard not to in a place where battles seemed as likely as alternate dimensions existing (then, alternate dimensions were labeled Science Fiction, kind of ironic due to the fact that the presence of one is a definite already).

The local administrators were rather lax in their job of keeping records, evidenced by the fact that there were more than a few households not on the colony's rather incomplete database.

As of the moment, Peres was outside the marine outpost, which didn't really fit the name. It was essentially a set of prefabricated structures with a two-floor house as the command center. A few flimsy walls surrounded it (a shot from a pre-mass effect discovery rifle had a fifty-fifty chance of piercing it), and there was an ancient Grizzly APC there (as in, really, really, really ancient, from before First Contact). The weapons used by the garrison were all old, some of them dating pre-first contact, and the kinetic barriers their substandard armor had were so weak that it was akin to civilian grade ones (in other words, it would be like wearing paper to protect oneself in a gunfight where bullets flew at ludicrously high speeds). On top of that, most of the garrison had poor accuracy, and team cohesion between the three squads (each with 12 men, and 14 base staff) was mediocre at best, a cockup at worst (unfortunately, the latter case was the more prevalent one).

The helmet of the armor (in his opinion, also useless) was hooked on his utility belt, and a cigarette was clenched between his lips. The corporal would find it as a sick irony that the only reason he survived the coming storm was because he was out for a smoke, which, theoretically, was against the rules and regulations (which sort of flew out of the proverbial window the minute he had set his foot here).

* * *

Main Colony, Mindoir

Sixteen-year old Abigail Shepard just gawked at the sound of the loud bang for a moment, before an earth-shattering and ear-piercing boom announced the start and end of the rather brief orbital bombardment by the slaver frigate.

In the short distance away, just barely visible over the rise of the nearby hill, the location of the Alliance outpost that hosted the fifty marines who were Mindoir's only defense against hostiles, long, grey streaks of smoke and smog informed the citizens of Mindoir of the fate of the outpost.

Hearts sinking from the fact that the outpost was gone, and that they were defenseless, panic began sinking into the nearby colonists, and hysteria seemed a short distance away.

"Sis!" came the shout of a familiar voice, small hints of panic inside it, but overall still in control of himself, unlike the others (who were now running around in aimless circles).

Shepard gave a sigh of relief as she saw her twin brother (who was younger than her by a scant few minutes, much to his apparent dismay, and to her apparent amusement), rushing past a few of the running colonists.

"John," she greeted him, albeit in a rushed manner. "Where's dad? And where's Eddie?" The last part was said in a more worried tone. It was understandable, really. Edward Shepard was still twelve, and despite the fact that the stubborn boy (it was a source of humor for John, due to the fact that in his _humble_ opinion, Abby- who hated it when he called her that- was just as pig-headed) insisted on his ability to take care of himself.

"Dad's in the house with Ed," John alleviated his sister's fears, before a large boom and its accompanying explosion interrupted whatever he was about to say.

On the opposite side of the now-demolished outpost was a small house. Its owner wasn't really known to the colony's inhabitants, just that it was a male human (everyone on Mindoir was human, aliens tended to go to their own backwater colonies if they wanted remoteness) that was definitely younger than twenty. He had arrived some time ago, and so far the only Abigail Shepard had even attempted to know who the man was, being the extrovert that she was.

Not that she was very successful in doing so…

* * *

Mindoir Safe House

Two Minutes Ago

The ear-shattering sonic boom and following explosion spurred me into action. Gone were the thoughts of blasting my own head off, and as adrenaline began pumping into my veins, the augmented brain those Dominion mad scientists had worked so hardly on began analyzing everything I had heard in the past seven or so seconds.

The explosion sounded like an orbital strike, though I would not know, what with being in a new, unknown (mostly, I will be the first to admit that reading the galactic Wikipedia…or codex, whatever the hell they call it, was not on my to-do list, sue me) universe (or should it be galaxy?).

The boom meant supersonic projectiles, which was kind of a 'no-shit Sherlock' thing for most, if not all advanced ship-based weaponry.

While my brain finished its painfully incomplete analysis of what just occurred, my arms were already working on checking the 'kinetic barrier' I had acquired during my earlier days here. It began powering up, the soft whir that it emitted supporting the assumption.

I then slung the barrier's (which I shall refer to as a shield henceforth) generator (which was small considering that this was an admittedly weak one) over my back, before making a short sprint to the window to find out what the heck was going on.

Had I been a mere colonist, or a greenhorn marine that did not know how war worked, I might have panicked at the sight I saw.

Horror might have struck me too, had I been the FNG (Fucking/Freaking New Guy) I was long, long, long ago.

A whirlwind of thick, black smoke was rising up into the air, originating from the pitifully small Alliance Marine Corps outpost that consisted of the backwater colony's only defenses. A loud rattling noise then burst forth from the window panes, originating from up high. A crane of my neck and the sight of five…alien, I guess…ships descending from the clouds allowed me to piece together whatever had just occurred.

While I may have been slightly (okay, a bit more than slightly) ignorant on the world around me, I knew the basics of many things here. One, was that Mindoir was a tiny shithole with little to no protection, due to its widely accepted status as a settlement too tiny for a slaving raid to be profitable. Two, was that due to the reasons stated in '1,' the Systems Alliance head honchos decided not to place Mindoir within effective range of their main fleet nexus points. Three, was that Mindoir, due to being near the Terminus Systems' borders, was more of a warning post than colony for the Alliance. Since it wasn't on the border to the Terminus, the Alliance didn't have a viable 'reason' to station a large force there, or the Citadel Council would make a hissy fit and start warning the Alliance on the dangers of 'provoking' the Terminus (really, even with my hate of the Dominion, I have to admit that they didn't take shit from no one…this Alliance was like a chew toy for the Council…but that might be my xenophobic tendencies speaking).

Before I could continue on my thoughts, which simply boiled down to '1' is evidently wrong and that Mindoir was being raided by pirates/slavers, my instincts began screaming 'danger' and I let my body take over.

A supercharged psionic barrier formed above me, around me, actually, and began taking the shape of a dome.

If I was right in my suspicions, and I usually was, then a shell from one of those ships just now was about to hit me…and as ineffective as the dome-shaped barriers were, they were the only ones that ensured that my organs would stay intact after the hit happened. It was only a suspicion, but I had seen Ghosts, overconfident ones at that, form skin-hugging barriers to deflect an artillery (that is, Siege Tank in siege mode) strike and succeeding in deflecting the hit…only to have their inner organs ruptured into gooey mush by the sheer kinetic force of the hit. As you may tell, a strike from a ship would, in most cases, be stronger than one from an artillery piece. And despite my suicidal dilemma earlier, I was not very appreciative to the idea of death by kinetic strike.

So…thus the dome.

The shell fired by the ship (I would later find out that it was a batarian frigate-class warship) then hammered through the roof of the house, landing (just my fucking luck) right above me.

The sheer force of the hit began depleting my barrier at alarming rates, causing me to instinctively put extra power into it, straining and draining my psionic reserve. Then the kinetic force of the actual strike came onto the barrier, and it drained even further.

A lesser Ghost, a Class 7, 8 or 9, would have either burned out or died by now, such was the amount of pressure exerted onto the psionic abilities I was using.

Hell, most Class 10s would be dead as well.

Then again, not one of them even came close to being as stubborn as I was in sheer willpower (that might be my ego too).

Darkness began settling in, and the edges of my vision began becoming blurry, before reddish hues appeared in my sights.

'Shit,' I cursed as I desperately pushed by reserves to the very edge of its breaking point. Soon, the blurriness increased, and darkness overtook me.

The one thought before that occurred?

'Live, dammit, I am NOT going to DIE here!'

* * *

_Approximately 11 Months Ago_

_Unknown Location _

_I opened my eyes, half-expecting to be dead and in whatever the afterlife consisted of, whether it was Hell, Heaven, Elysium, Valhalla or the plethora of afterlife scenarios that could exist. The other half was expecting to wake up on the ground of Roan Ives now-destroyed home._

_I tried opening my eyes, but they were immediately filled with searing bright lights as soon as I did so. As you could imagine, this was far, far from pleasant._

"_Son of a bitch," I muttered in agony, which was thankfully brief. The numbness surrounding my body was already beginning to dissipate, and my crude psionic 'radar' was already 'mapping' out the surrounding area. _

_Psionic Mapping was what I named it when my brain stored the data on my surroundings, which could be collected by sending psionic pulses in all directions, before the said pulses would bounce back and present a crude, but useful, 'radar' and map. Normally, my Heads-Up Display on the helmet would have provided the information I needed, but at the moment it was blinking the words 'error' and 'system attempting to reboot' repeatedly._

_A jolt of electricity, a psionic-based one at that, provided the charge needed to boost the Hostile Environment Suit back to power, and the armor's systems began rebooting._

_I paid it little attention, as the majority of my concentration and focus was on the results of the mapping. While I could concede that the scans would not have been very accurate, it was usually reasonably correct in its end result. This, though…I would have been able to see the layout of Ives' house, but instead I felt…grass? Grass, not one I was familiar with, and a few stones and pebbles here and there. Ives' home was in the middle of a trailer park of some sort, with concrete and cement providing the groundwork…so unless that weapon the hostile had shot me with was a plant-growing gun…_

_Then the memories came crashing in, as if the floodgates had opened. Everything from my childhood…to the forced conscription…to the Initiation. Then came the memories of the missions. Aegemon IV…Vekta III…New Edanus…Agria…Dead Man's Port…Port Victory…_

_Every singe operation I had taken part in began flooding my mind, and the sudden intake of information nearly overwhelmed me. _

_I was so engrossed and preoccupied with the info flood that I had all but ignored the fact that my eyes and HUD/armor systems were back to normal working capacity._

_My heart broke a little when I saw the memories of the forced conscription, the looks of sadness and grief in my parents' eyes, before it turned to anger. Then it turned to anger and hate as they defied the (at the time) Confederacy's attempt to conscript me._

_Of course, defiance to a tyrannical government wasn't a path to longevity, and soon the marines accompanying the Confederate officer just raised their rifles and hosed my brave parents down with bullet fire. I was six at the time. _

_Then the memories of pain, when the Confederates placed me into their Ghost-II Program, meant to be the enhanced variant of the Ghosts. Genetic augmentations, psionic boosters and brain augmentations were just a few of the things there that I saw…and all of it was painful. _

_There was training, before the failed mission on Aegemon IV, where the rebel group, which had been labeled as a 'terrorist organization' the Confederacy, named the Sons of Korhal (led by the man who would rule just like the Confederates in the future as an emperor) managed to capture me and dump me into one of their psi indoctrinator vats. _

_Brainwashing took place then…and afterwards I became one of the rebels, assisting the revolting colony of Vekta III. Then the fall of Tarsonis occurred, which was caused by Arcturus Mengsk, the future emperor and then leader of the Sons of Korhal. Billions died that day, slaughtered by the Zerg Swarm._

_Operations on New Edanus and Agria where I killed innocents in cold blood, even ordering a nuclear strike just to eliminate a fugitive…_

_Then Dead Man's Port. I was tasked with eliminating a rogue general who had defected from the Dominion…_

_I hunted down his family, using them as bait…and after the general was captured, I mercilessly shot his family in front of him, before giving him a painful death (as ordered by the emperor) through the acid lakes that were the norm on the lawless world of Dead Man's Port. Then Port Victory…_

_And for the first time in nine years, I, Lieutenant Alexander Miller, Ghost of the Terran Dominion, wept in the guilt of what I had done._

* * *

Ruins of Safe House, Mindoir

The shrieking, bright white noise that was continuously ringing in both of my ears was the first thing to greet me. That little flash to the past stirred some unwanted memories, things I wanted- no, needed- to bury.

A groan escaped my lips as my eyes began adjusting to the burning inferno that surrounded me. Not quite hell, but it definitely looked like a page out of those records on the Brood War.

Jesus H. Christ.

I began hauling my sorry ass up, shuffling to the nearest solid surface to support myself. My psionic reserves were drained, and drained badly. I could hardly form a psionic shield if I tried, and even walking was already taking its toll on me.

A nap would be so...

No!

Focus, dammit!

Shaking my head in frustration at the attackers and my own moment of weakness, I began leaning on a support pylon, my augmented and upgraded eyes trying to spot anything that could have been of use to me.

A reflection of so caught my eye, the gunmetal grey of a rifle case standing out from the red and orange glows. I trudged to the rifle case, popping it open to reveal my C-22 Canister Rifle, which was in impeccable condition. I sighed as I hefted it up. I swore that I would not use this rifle again, ever again in my life, but it seems that that pledge was going to hinder my chances at survival here.

Finding three spare clips, all full with the ammunition for the upgraded and modified rifle, I began searching for anything else that could be useful to me.

A dark green box was also sitting there, and once again I found myself popping it open. Inside was a set of needles and vials, some of them marked 'Adrenaline' (essentially the non-addictive version of Stim Packs).

Exactly what I needed…most of the time, only marines and marauders used these adrenaline shots, as psionic adepts usually had higher endurance levels than normal, regular humans.

But the tired state that I was in meant that it would have to do, and I jabbed the needle, still clean and functional due to the foolhardy nature of the container (terran things were always built to last, as wasting resources was simply not possible). The shot of adrenaline, artificial as it was, began coursing through my veins, and I felt rejuvenated, if only partially. It was enough for the moment, though.

Finding a rucksack that miraculously survived the hit, I placed the ammo clips and other med-kits I had left into it. Then I slung it over my shoulder. The Kinetic Barrier's generator was surprisingly in working condition, a miracle in its own right…ah, well, thank whatever higher power is out there for the small miracles.

I looked at the supplies I had. I needed two essentials now. Water, and food. Both of which weren't present anymore here. The kinetic force and heat caused by the strike would have shattered and burnt any food or water that was still here, so my only choice was to scavenge…and the only place nearby to do so would be the town (the surrounding area, which I had mapped before, had no rivers, ponds or lakes, only plains that went on for miles).

The town was probably getting swarmed by slavers and pirates now…but I simply had no choice.

I took a few fleeting glances at the rising pillars of smoke originating from the Alliance outpost. No one would have survived that hit…poor bastards.

I shook my head, forcing out the pity for the dead defenders who were killed by an unseen enemy. I needed to go into Ghost mode now…cold and decisive.

I began my trek to the town…how do these humans here say it? Out of the frying pan, and into the fire…too right.

* * *

AN: Here's chapter 2...a bit of a filler, but more action, wanton destruction and blazing guns will come soon! Speaking of wanton destruction, lovers of destruction should go check out TheBleachDoctor's 50 shades of overkill...utter, total destruction porn!


	3. Crescendo

February 3, 2170  
Cruiser _Devil's Delight  
_Mindoir

The Nest-Class Cruiser was once the mainstay of the Batarian Navy, providing the muscle when dreadnoughts couldn't, and leading small battle groups with accompanying frigates.

With the batarian economy going down the sinker, though (not that any batarian official would commit literal suicide by saying it), the Hegemony found themselves investing more into cheaper ships, which the Nest-class was clearly not. Though it had good firepower and decent armor, their shields were rather…lacking when compared to the cruisers of other council races.

Added to their rather hefty price tag, even the headstrong naval admirals had to acknowledge that using the Nest-class as a capital ship was a waste of money. Thus, aside from a few of the heavily upgraded Nest-classes, the majority of them were either mothballed (taken from the Systems Alliance Navy's massive mothball fleet) or sold to independent parties…like Terminus warlords and pirate gangs…and their 'unaffiliated' slaver groups ('unaffiliated' when caught, allied when not caught).

Gahriel Balak was the leader of one of the 'unaffiliated' groups. Unlike the other unaffiliated groups, though, Balak was much closer to the Hegemony. On the Hegemony's records, the 7th Privateer Flotilla was listed as 'deployed.' In reality, the 7th Privateers were Balak's private army and fleet. Most of them were his crew from earlier deployments, all of them imbued with the unending hatred of humans for 'stealing the rightful territory of the Batarian Hegemony.'

Balak actually liked the humans during their First Contact War with the turians (who the batarians hated just less than the humans). Of course, when a Systems Alliance frigate destroyed a batarian 'forceful acquirement flotilla' (see: a sophisticated way of saying 'pirate flotilla') led by Balak's brother, the hatred began settling in. After the Alliance began colonizing the Skyllian Verge, it turned to full-blown hatred (as living around propaganda tends to do that to someone).

As of the moment, he was speaking with a member of the Special Intervention Unit (the Hegemony's Special Forces, Intelligence Service and black ops group all rolled into one), one that worked in Intel.

"…Sure that it is secured and brought to Khar'Shan." Finished the Intel officer. The hologram representing him (only males were allowed in the Batarian military) was all blurred and unclear, not showing the real face of the contact.

"And the colonists?" Balak prodded, wanting to know if he could gain some extra money from slaves.

"Kill any adults and every child above twelve," the reply was gruff and swift. "Leave their bodies in the colony square, and hang the entrails. This attack will be the first strike against the human _scum_." The malice was easily heard even over a communications relay.

Balak's glee increased at this point. The hatred he had for humans was almost fanatical, and nearly all of the Hegemony's high command knew it. With a sanctioned assault on a human colony- that was rightfully in batarian space- his prestige would increase. The money provided by the Hegemony was also rather high, and money was money.

"Understood," Balak acknowledged respectfully, before cutting the call. Then he cackled in mad glee.

* * *

February 3, 2170  
Near Shepard Residence  
Mindoir

The two Shepard twins sprinted as fast as their legs could have taken them, not daring to look back. The now-familiar rat-tat-tat that noise that could only mean gunfire was still continuing behind them, showing that the slavers and pirates weren't actively trying to enslave anyone…

In fact, during the time between the strike on the small house on the other side of the town to this moment, both of them had only seen one or two people get knocked out instead of being shot at.

John gritted his teeth in exertion, sweat beading on his forehead, and a slight pant escaped him as he continued to dash towards their home. Though he was athletic, there were certain limits to a human body…added to the fact that he had not eaten since lunchtime, which meant that his limits were strained even more than usual. His sister's arm was slung across his shoulder, and she was trying her very best to keep up with her brother, even with the current state that she was in.

Abigail Shepard blinked away the blurriness that was starting to encroach on the very edges of her vision, no doubt caused by the current injuries she was sporting. A stray shot from a raider's (it was a more fitting term, as the attackers were definitely not slaving) rifle had ricocheted off a lamppost (of all things) right into her left thigh. That, in turn, led to the limping.

But still, the sight of their home in the near distance injected a burst of energy into both of them, and the practically thundered their way there.

Once they reached the house itself, they began pounding onto the door of the small building, which was only one floor in height, with only rooms for the Shepard siblings and their dad.

Frank Shepard, their father, was once a marine in the Alliance, and had served right up till the end of the First Contact War. He was insistent on installing security cameras in the house, if only to provide a semblance of security. The other members of the family thought that it was an unnecessary waste…but they had not spoken out.

The monitor clearly showed his kids, so the elder Shepard unlocked the door, and it slid open to the sides, allowing the twins entry to their home.

"Dad," Abigail Shepard greeted him, relieved at seeing her father safe…relatively speaking, of course. She gave him a brief hug, knowing that the state of their current predicament meant that they had little time to waste.

While his sister went over to their father, John rushed to his brother, who was keeping vigil over a set of rifles and (to him) unknown metal boxes (in reality, shield generators).

Giving his younger sibling a reassuring nod and pat on the shoulder, John slid the generator across his back, before picking up one of the rifles and a pistol, along with a magnetic strip. With shaking hands, he slipped the magnetic strip onto the right side of his hip, placing the pistol- an M2 Miasma- right on it. The DA-2 (Daedalus Armaments, a weapons manufacturer that went bankrupt in 2167) Hunter Assault Rifle (which had a sling) went to his shoulder.

At around this time, the slightly older Abigail Shepard had helped the youngest of the family equip his shield generator, before putting her own one on, and taking the rifle and pistol.

Most kids their age would not have been able to handle a gun, and most likely would have panicked at the mere sight of one. Then again, most kids did not have a partially paranoid Systems Alliance Marine as their father. Frank Shepard had taught his kids how to defend themselves (when he had pitched the idea to his wife, Hannah, she did not mind), unarmed (which was what his wife thought) and armed (which the wife did not like).

As such, the twins weren't strangers to weapons…but they weren't very happy with them either.

The youngest, Ed, was just armed with a pistol, not that anyone in the family hoped that he would be forced to use it.

Watching his kids, his boys and girl (no 's'), Frank Shepard felt a small hint of pride well up in him. As he was more focused on the people inside the house rather than anything that had been going on outside, he was unpleasantly surprised by what he saw through the cameras once he turned back to them.

"Damn it."

* * *

Unknown Area  
Mindoir

Five elite commandos, all in jet black armor with red highlights moved silently through the shadows. The main colony on Mindoir was impossible to see from this distance.

The point-man, carrying one of the custom built rifles the Systems Alliance loved to equip their special forces teams with, led by eight or so meters. Two other armor-clad commandos followed closely behind, and two more commandos served as the rearguard, watching their teammates' backs.

The booming sound that suspiciously resembled that of an orbital strike's was accompanied by the rattling of the structure, causing the team to freeze in their tracks.

After a few tense seconds, where nothing jumped out of the shadows to surprise the living hell out of them, one of the commandos muttered.

"The hell was that?"

Another commando, most likely the leader, though it was not readily visible, replied in a serious tone. "No idea. Four, check with command."

The fourth member of the team, 'Four,' had a submachine gun instead of a rifle, and a signal booster strapped onto the back of his armor, signaling the role of a comm. specialist.

"Roger," the specialist acknowledged gruffly, before proceeding to check in with command.

After three repeatedly failed attempts, 'Four' just shook his head.

"Crap," cursed the team leader.

"Boss?" one of the rearguards questioned.

"We keep moving. Let's go," the team leader decided.

The rest of the team looked at each other for a moment, before nodding. "Yes sir."

* * *

Near Main Colony  
Mindoir

The former Ghost groaned in exasperation as the three batarians on patrol continued their pointless chatter. There was a third reason to go to the town, and that was because he needed his Hostile Environment Suit. That, in turn, meant that he needed to get past this roadblock, and since his Hostile Environment Suit was stored in a hidden vault in the center of the town, the tried-and-tested method of 'cloak and dagger' that Ghosts loved was just not possible at the moment.

"…So I just shot the filthy human," finished one of the bats (a shortened form of their species name) proudly. He was probably young and inexperienced, seeing as he was so gleeful when talking about killing humans.

The other two bats were also probably inexperienced and young. Their chuckles and uproarious laughter attested to the assumption.

Had Miller been in Dominion space, a psionic attack would have been the best option for proceeding…but the thing was that he didn't even know if psionic attacks will work on them. After all, they were aliens.

"So, why do you think Balak placed us here?" asked one of the bats to his two shithead friends after they all got over their annoyingly grating sound they called laughter.

Alex perked up at this. Someone ordered them there…which meant that this 'Balak' was a man in a position of power, or at least of higher rank than them.

"I don't know," shrugged one of them. They all looked the same to Miller, and they sounded the same as well, so he couldn't really tell which one.

There was a brief lull in the conversation then and there, and that was when the former Ghost decided, 'fuck it' and tried to mind control one of the bats.

Sending out a psionic pulse (that was still weak from his previous exertion in the safe house) that surprisingly managed to detect three independent signatures around him, all not very well protected by their mind's mental barriers, Miller grinned. Against even a weak psionic human (in his home 'dimension' barriers these weak were extremely easy to break through), his current state would not have given him much of an advantage. But these aliens, at least the three in front of him, were just _so_ weak that even the weakest Psi in the Ghost Corps could handle all three of them easily.

Still, his relatively weakened status would mean that advanced attacks like mind control and lash were not possible.

'Still,' he thought in anticipation, 'simple is good.'

Then he burst into action, standing up and mentally selecting an 'area' to deploy his psionic stun on. The attack, were he at full strength, would have utterly froze regular humans in their spot, slowing down the brain's functions. Seeing as his weakened state's attacks had allowed him to stun all three of them, that meant that either these three were poor examples of their race's psi potential, or they were all that weak.

Darting to the nearest one, the elite Ghost plunged his monomolecular vibrating blade into the neck of his target, before ripping it to the side. The cheap armor used by the inexperienced and new pirate didn't even resist the blade, being torn apart like paper. The entire front end of the neck was ripped out, looking savage and graceful at the same time.

In a flash, the blade was embedded in the skull of the second, thrown by the Ghost as he turned, before darting to the last one and, after retrieving his knife telekinetically, plunging it into the last raider's skull. The psionic 'radar' detected no life signatures after that, and the Ghost nodded in satisfaction, before putting his blade back into the scabbard and moving forward once more.

* * *

Raider Command Center  
Mindoir

Sardo Jerak frowned at the 'no signal' beeps coming from one of the roadblock units. Why the roads were there were beyond him, seeing as the entire galaxy seemed to be using air cars, and that ground-based vehicles were out of fashion. However, that was not his job.

No, his job was a technician for the Ground Command Group, monitoring the status of the various men deployed by the flotilla.

Sighing, he shook his head and smacked the receiver for the seventeenth time in the past few hours since his shift started. The receivers and status readers on each batarian aboard the flotilla were rather faulty lately, no doubt in part due to the poor maintenance by the other technicians. That, and the receivers were old, and that the armors and tech were bought at bargain prices. Along with a whole Pandora's box of reasons, which was, of course, a can of worms that Jerak did not want to open.

Not that he knew what worms were.

When he saw that the error light had started to blink once more, he groaned in annoyance and ignored it, going back to the Fornax magazine he was so engrossed in before the problems began. It was probably just another malfunction, something that would be fixed when they pulled into a batarian port after this raid.

It was nigh impossible that a survivor of their recent massacre through the colony had been able to do this, right? And since the Alliance outpost was wiped out, it simply could not be them either. Feeling reassured, Jerak made the first of the fatal mistakes that the raiders would fall victim to.

* * *

Systems Alliance Intelligence Network HQ  
Arcturus Station, Arcturus System

2nd Lieutenant Edwin Boyle looked left and right, checking to see if he was alone. Then, after confirming that he was indeed alone, he set off on the little side-job he had been asked…and paid to do. His superiors would have had him court-martialed if he was caught, but if they didn't know, then nothing bad could come out of this, right?

Plus, someone else would do it if it wasn't him, and he might as well get some extra money, right?

The reasoning was there, and despite himself, Boyle forced his conscience to accept it. As the message had detailed, the 'signal lost' message from the Mindoir outpost came in.

Taking in a deep breath to calm himself, Boyle began changing the message such that a person not looking for it wouldn't have realized that it was edited. The root of the lost signal, instead of being from Mindoir, was the poor maintenance of the comm. relay it used.

Finishing the minor, subtle and at-the-time insignificant changes, Boyle sat back and relaxed, grinning nervously. The five hundred thousand credits were good enough to pay for his mortgage on the apartment back on Phoenix on Earth.

Still, the nervous pit merely increased.

* * *

Main Colony  
Mindoir

"That settles it," muttered Miller as he covered his nostrils, for once regretting the enhanced senses he had that included smell. "I hate batarian food, and it probably tastes like shit."

Four dead batarians stood around a makeshift campfire that looked familiar yet alien to him. The roast meat, Miller judged, was of an unknown animal, probably from the shithole these chauvinist bastards evolved from.

It smelled like excreta, and looked like a penis that had been through a meat grinder, a shredder and the firing range at the same time.

Then again, who knew what a Batarian's penis looked like?

'Probably tiny and withered, like their faces, heck, the guns they carry are most likely this big to compensate for the tininess,' mused the Ghost as he began moving again, leaving behind another pile of corpses. One had a bullet in his head (it was a pleasant surprise to see that the high caliber rounds fired from a coil gun were too much for the shields of this dimension), two having knife wounds in various locations, and one with a head bent at a very, very wrong angle.

The path that the Ghost took would have been extremely and ridiculously easy to find and follow. All one needed to do was to find the swath of death and destruction the silent warrior left in his wake.

He was much closer to his target right now, the target being the vault that the colony's bank (the ridiculous notion that the tiny prefab in the center of the colony was a bank was dispelled when he found that it was really a bank) sported.

There were only a few reasons why he didn't want to keep the armor in the safe house. One was that the house had no places to store the armor. Another was that the armor kept bringing the bad memories back. He would have destroyed it, but it proved to be too useful to do so. Miller was nothing if not practical. In the end, he compromised and stored the armor, in compact form, inside the colony's bank vault. The best thing about this 'bank' was that it was extremely tiny and did not use electronic means to store their things. They also did not use any of the galactic identification cards, so anyone without ID could use it. It was perfect for Miller.

The entire way from the safe house to the current location he was at was taxing and yet easy at the same time on Alex. He was getting more and more tired as the adrenaline wore off, but yet the sheer stupidity of the raiders in coordination, with no radio checks, made it easy going for the experienced warrior.

Of course, no matter how good things were, the old saying still applied here. All good things simply had to come to an end.

"HEY!" shouted an alerted voice.

'Ah, shit,' though Miller as he spun to see two shocked batarians, both of them in armor. The one who shouted the 'hey' had begun reaching for his gun, but Miller was faster. The rifle had already been aimed at the bat by the time two seconds had passed, and a millisecond later the bullet flew out.

The large round, propelled at high speeds (though not as high as mass accelerator rounds), smacked the kinetic barrier aside (barriers in this dimension were for the sole reason of stopping fast-moving grain sized particles) and hammered onto the armored helmet. The second round, not slowed down by the now-burnt out kinetic barrier, butchered the head of the bat.

The head of the target exploded into pulp, but the second one, probably more experienced, had already aimed his gun at Alex. They both fired at the same time, though the bat only got one shot off. The raider's shot merely bounced off Miller's kinetic barrier, though it did drain it by 34%. Miller, however, fired twice, as was his usual procedure for dealing with raiders.

Like with the first one, the first bullet smashed the shields apart and dented the armor, this time hitting the torso. Had Miller not fired any more rounds that would have been the end of it. The bat would probably get a massive bruise there. The second round, though, tore apart the armor, shattering the insides of the bat.

Miller let out a sigh, for he knew what was about to happen next.

The single shot that the bat had managed to fire off had alerted every single bat here to something that was amiss- ah, who the hell was he kidding? The entire batarian force probably knew he where he was at now.

* * *

Raider Command Center  
Mindoir

The commander of the ground forces, second in command to Balak, froze as he heard the gunshot.

He reacted immediately, as did the others in he command center.

"All teams, REPORT!" he roared into the comm.

"This is Alpha 1 leader, colony square secure."

"Beta 1 here, police station secure."

"Carnifex 1 here, admin building secure."

"Demon 1 here, housing sector 1 secure."

"Eidolon 1 here, housing sector 2 secure."

"Gamma 1 here, fire station secure."

"Hotel 1 here, bank secure."

No reports filtered in from Farseer 1 or Indigo 1. Neither did reports come in from Joker 1.

"Farseer? Indigo? Joker? Report!" he ordered.

No reply.

"Dammit, Reserve team 1, check on Farseer's location. Reserve team 2, Indigo's. Reserve team 3, go to Joker's location," he sighed. No reply could only mean two things. One, they were dead. Or two, they all simultaneously fell asleep.

Knowing which was more likely, the commander began dialing Balak. This was going to be a long, long day. He just knew it.

* * *

AN: Chapter 3 is here. Please review...and no flames! Unless there's a valid reason for the flames, that is.


End file.
